Maybe
by gryffindormischief
Summary: "Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same." — Emily Brontë


A/N: AH I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M POSTING THIS. **Definitely more adult, so BE AWARE**. ok bye.

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His lips trail the moonlight spilling over her freckled skin, the roughness of his cheek a beautiful kind of torture they both know she finds irresistible. And she knows he's well aware, after this long, knows what that dangerous grin he only ever aims at her means, and she's halfway gone before his lips make good on the promise of his eyes.

That mischief she only sees in stolen hours and secret glances across crowded rooms, the tilt of his lips that sends her heart into a wild rhythm, that has her following as he spirits them away from whatever gala or benefit clamors for their time.

Time that was always precious, that never really grew in value but in her estimation it seems to soar ever higher. Because he's here, _they_ are here, breath skittering across dewy skin as her sighs echo his thrusts. As she swallows the moans that leave his lips like a prayer.

It's strange sometimes, to realize the people they are most hours of the day, most of their lives, are like skins they shed in the quiet of the night, of their home, of their bed. When statistics and fame and fortune fall away along with the last scraps of fabric that drape over their forms. When the last vestiges of false masks and carefully crafted smiles are wiped away and her laughs bloom from somewhere deeper than her chest and his eyes crinkle with the joy of knowing he drew it out.

Those moments are the true beauty, when her hands grasp his straining shoulders as their exertions bring about that euphoria, the joy, not of physical release, at least not in whole. Because that's certainly part, but it's more. It's built in the hours beyond the four walls that keep them shielded from the world for a time. The meaning amplified by the heated looks shared in the midst of an unaware assembly, the soft caresses meant for comfort more than anything, the set of her jaw when a challenge faces either or both, and his soft smile that's always been hers. The changes borne of moments spent apart become features to be learned and only questioned later, in the quiet after. Her hands grasp a little tighter as her fingers mark each new scar, his lips that much gentler as they skirt over the rainbows that litter her skin.

Each time new, no matter how far they are from it in truth, save the eyes. And it's in that moment that her heart truly soars, it's then that the beauty of who he is, who they are together and apart, rises to the forefront. Their bodies lock in a dance more beautiful and ancient than any wonder to be given a name, but their eyes are where their souls meet, where they are finally fully bare before each other in that magnificent moment of truth that crescendos like a brilliant wave crashing unrelenting against ageless cliffs.

His lips search her skin for bare places to worship, the bristle of his beard dragging a shiver up her spine like call and response, a ripple effect she can no more stop than the beating of her own heart. It's almost unreal, the otherworldly way she feels on nights like this. Nights where the only things that ground her are the scrape of his callouses along her back and her own hands grappling at his hair, pulling him close like she needs him to breathe.

And maybe she does. Maybe these stolen moments are more than a respite. Maybe every notch in her armor she wears as soon as she leaves the flat, every taunt that comes at him from more places that she can count - maybe these moments are where the strength comes from. The rush she gets just from his touch certainly feels like more than a brief holiday from the world and more like a breath of life, an assurance that she can and will make it through another day.

That with every heady rush they give each other, every bone numbing flood of endorphins actually girds them against what's to come. It's a lot to consider, this type of need for another person. A desperation that's more than carnal and more like soulmates.

She'd always balked at the idea of being _completed_ by another person. And she still does, rejecting such a simplistic description of something so elegant and delicate that no words will ever truly express the way the rasp of his groan in her ear warms her through until she's brave enough to face another day. It's a miracle she'll never explain, cannot and will not. The renewal they give in sighs and languid strokes and whispers across damp pillow cases is a constantly thrumming bond that woke between them over a decade ago and has only expanded to become a part of her that feels so real it's like phantom limb. An itch that is constant, but comforting. An awareness that stays vibrant even in the back of her mind, one that's quelled when his palm warms her lower back or her foot brushes along his ankle.

Sensuality is a part of it, but it's not just gratification or lust. She's been caught up in that before, young as she was. This communion of souls that somehow she knows everything else would pale in comparison to - no skill or finesse could surpass the wildness of his emerald eyes when he pins her with his stare, no physique could overcome the electricity that vibrates through her bones when his lips drag across her skin in the darkness.

His hips stutter against hers, a break in the steady push and pull and his breath catches, a sharp inhalation just at her ear as he swears to himself. Slowly, she drags her fingers over the corded muscle of his bicep, gentle and teasing so his eyes dart to hers, questioning and then full of understanding. His lips slant in a smirk as he slows the roll of his body against hers and collapses back against the already damp sheets.

Rain begins to patter against the roof as she claims her place atop him like some regal queen on her throne. And that's how he looks at her in that moment, like she's something beautiful and unattainable, which satisfying though it may be is too much an echo of the sorry state of his self worth. So when she levels a glare and pinches his side just slightly harder than playful, his face softens in understanding.

She drags it out at first, toying with him so his fingers clench on her hips, desperate and wanting. But _she's_ setting the pace and it's going to be blissful torture - for now. It begins when her palms run over his arms, straightening them over his head until their fingers interlock and her chest looms just out of reach. The movement has her whole body shifting over his, the drag of skin against skin that has his breath coming in controlled exhales.

After pressing his hands firmly in place - a silent instruction - she brings hers back to run over her own body, lingering in places to tease and taunt while his lips fall open in a wordless prayer.

His fingers twitch in desperation but he doesn't move, obedience she rewards first with a heated press of her lips to his and second as she rises to her knees and slowly brings them to the precipice of what they both need.

It's a glorious kind of satisfaction, letting her body finally get what it so craves, filled to the brim so all she can do is let out a moan into the hazy, moonlit room. The rain falls in heavier sheets as she undulates against him in long, smooth strokes and her hands grip into her fiery locks - the slight pain somehow grounding her.

The graceful pace can only be maintained for so long, her body just as desperate as his, her hands grasping at the headboard as his finally come to her waist and the mattress creaks beneath them.

Lightning flashes at the window and a clap of thunder soon follows, but she only has eyes for him and the storm blooming in his eyes, the determined set of his brow as he fights to prolong their dance just a little longer.

But it's not necessary, her lungs pressing out a gasp as her body erupts and she pitches forward, sweat sheened chest against his and murmurs encouragements that unleash something in him. She can practically feel his heart thud against her, their rhythm falling out of sync in the most satisfying way so her head is filled with thoughts of him, of them, and then no thoughts at all.

It's not until her eyes drift open that she realizes he'd rolled them over once again, her muscles stretched and sore in the best way and her body finally held down to earth by the weight of him, of them. And it's that weight of them, their rhythm, and the utter completeness of what they are together that _truly_ brings her to that quiet place. Peace.


End file.
